


Tangles

by Crollalanza



Series: Cats [4]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Childhood, Domestic Violence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-17
Updated: 2014-11-17
Packaged: 2018-02-25 19:18:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2633237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crollalanza/pseuds/Crollalanza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kuro remembers certain birthdays with far more clarity than others. His seventh birthday for instance is when a huge clusterfuck of cosmic fate converged on that day to shape the rest of his life. </p><p>And yet, at the time, no one could have predicted it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tangles

**Author's Note:**

> This has been written for Kuroo's birthday. There's no other reason needed. I love him lots.  
> There's a theory about Kuroo's bedhead being caused by him clamping two pillows over his head when he sleeps, this is my headcanon for that story.  
> Finally, this story follows the same canon as A Couple O' Cats, Bedhead and Shadows and Growing Pains.

 Kuro remembers certain birthdays with far more clarity than others.

The most vivid birthday memory Kuroo has is the party when he was seven. He’d had other birthdays and parties before then, obviously, but it’s the seventh that sticks.

It’s as if some huge clusterfuck of cosmic fate converged on that day to shape the rest of his life. And yet, at the time, no one could have predicted it.

 The first happenstance is that the kid over the road has been invited. The Kozumes have just moved to the area, and their mums are friendly (in that kind of chatting in the street way.) For some reason, this also means Tetsurou _has_ to get on with their son. (But he stares sullenly at him, and the Kozume kid keeps his eyes on his feet.) He’s seven. This kid is only just six, but his mum doesn’t listen when he says he doesn’t want the shrimp coming over because he’s a baby who never wants to do anything.  Instead, she says it’s a nice thing for Tetsurou to do because Kenma-chan doesn’t have any friends yet and is probably lonely.

“He’s boring!” Tetsurou wants to protest, but his mum has that look in her eye, that one where she’ll sigh and say she’s disappointed in him, and Tetsurou hates that.

(He later found out that Kenma hadn’t wanted to be there either, but his dad had insisted saying it would be good for him to make new friends - to make _any_ friends.)

“Only if you make me a chocolate cake,” he bargains, sticking out his lower lip.

She laughs and ruffles his (at that time) soft hair. “Of course, Surou-chan. Chocolate cake, frosting and LOTS of sprinkles, yes?”

His seventh birthday party is brilliant. His mum buys a banner and balloons and they spend the morning decorating the house, the smell of the chocolate cake wafting towards them and making Tetsurou’s mouth water. He’s too excited for breakfast and skimps on lunch because he knows the party tea is going to be huge with all his favourite foods, and fizzy drinks bought for the day. For his day. His special day.

“Is Daddy coming home early?” he asks, worried because he’d hoped his dad wouldn’t work on this particular Saturday. “Can you call him, and remind him about the party?”

His mum looks down at him from the stepladder she’s climbed up and a moment later, she replies, “Daddy’s working very hard at the store, Surou-chan. So, it might be for the best if we don’t call him.”  She smiles and returns to the banner. “We’ll save him a slice of your cake. He loves chocolate cake, doesn’t he? Just like his best boy!”

Tetsurou smiles back. He’s Daddy’s boy in more than a shared name and looks.

“We’ll save him the _biggest_ slice!”

 

The cake isn’t quite ready when his first friends arrive. His mum says that it needs to cool down properly before she puts the icing on, or it will all slide off and look a mess. Tetsurou’s not that fussed about what it looks like, but he knows his mum is quite particular, so when she promises him it will be finished before the end of the party, he’s happy with that. And in the end, it’s a good thing the cake’s not finished because when Kozume Kenma turns up, having been dragged across the road by his dad, Tetsurou’s mum takes one look at the pale face and red eyes and ushers him away from the boisterous boys, saying she needs his help in the kitchen.  Tetsurou watches, almost jealously, when Kenma meekly follows his mum. But when he gets to the kitchen door, he falters and turns his head to stare up at him.

“For you,” Kenma mumbles and thrusts a card and present into Tetsurou’s hand.

(He had a lot of presents that day. He can’t remember any of them except Kenma’s. It was book of Japanese mythology. Something he opened and chucked in the corner as soon as he saw what it was, but he still has it on his bookshelf. He packed it up in the crate with everything important because ... He doesn’t need another reason.)

The front door opens when the party is reaching its screeching conclusion. Tetsurou is laughing at the top of his voice and chasing two of his friends around the house while they bash each other with balloons. He doesn’t hear the door, but he hears the loud bellow of surprise, and a grin ricochets across his face.

“DADDY!” he yells, stops what he’s doing and bounds out of the front room.

“What’s going on?” His dad is standing in their hallway, so surprised by the noise that he’s forgotten to remove his shoes.

“It’s my party. You came!” Tetsurou exclaims and tries to grab his dad’s hand. “We’ve had tea, but there’s cake and candles and it’s a chocol-“

“MIWA!” his dad shouts.

“Tetsurou...” She appears, breathless, in the kitchen door. “You’re home early.”

“You didn’t tell me about this,” he murmurs.

“I did. I-I’m sure I did,” she replies, a smile on her face as she glances over his shoulder and down at Tetsurou. “Surou-chan, go and play with your friends – the cake’s nearly ready.”

“Daddy, will you play with us?” he says, tugging on his arm.

“Later,” his dad snaps as he loosens his tie. Then he places his hand on Tetsurou’s shoulder, grips firmly and turns him towards the room where all his friends are. “You heard your mother. Go and play.”

He does for a while, but it’s nearly the end of the party and his mum hasn’t appeared with the cake. It’s the part he’s looking forward to, even more than the presents because he wants his friends to watch him blow out candles while they sing, and his mum’s cake is yummy, and it always looks good. And he wants his mum there with her camera, taking pictures or even a film of everyone wishing him a happy birthday.

“Mum!” He leaps from the room and bowls into the kitchen. “Is it time for cake? MUM!”

He shouldn’t have been worried. He should _not_ have run into the kitchen because she was on her way, the cake on the plate she saves for special occasions, decorated with frosting and sprinkles and chocolate buttons in the shape of a seven. She’s arranged the candles too, and has a box of matches in her hand. So if he hadn’t run in just then, demanding his cake, then none of it would have happened.

But because Tetsurou is impatient, shouting his head off over a _stupid_ cake, his mum is startled. The cake wobbles and it might have been okay, except that then his dad yells at Tetsurou to keep the noise down and the plate – his mum’s special birthday plate – slips from her hand.

It doesn’t crash to the floor. That would have been better. Instead, it launches forwards, an ugly arc through the space between his mum and dad.

His dad sort of catches it. It’s not a clean catch, and the cake slides into his chest, and so he lurches forward, his face skimming the frosting.

Tetsurou laughs. Because this is just like a TV show, or a cartoon, one of those funny films where the kids have food fights, eating the food after wiping it off their faces. And it’s funny. It’s his birthday cake, and yeah, it’s a bit messy now but...

“You fucking stupid bitch.”

The words are said so softly that Tetsurou doesn’t sense any danger. He continues to giggle because he can’t work out why his mum looks so scared.

“You think it’s funny?”

“Surou-chan. Leave –”

“Shut up! I’m speaking to my son!” His dad rounds on him. “You think this is funny, you fucking waste of space? You’re laughing because my suit is ruined?”

“N-n-no.” At last he realises, and he steps back, his eyes wide and apologetic. “S-sorry.”

His dad glares at him, and Tetsurou is trying to pull his face straight, but his dad still has chocolate on his chin, and sprinkles on his nose, and so he becomes nervous and the giggles won’t stop.

“This is your cake, right?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Whoops!” His dad releases the plate, not just dropping it to the floor but throwing it against the wall, just past Tetsurou’s face. The plate smashes, the shards of brightly coloured china embedding themselves in the matting on the floor. “Pick it up!” he orders his son.

“It’s his party,” his mum says in something that’s more of a whimper. “I’ll clear up.”

But Tetsurou has already sunk to the floor and is scooping up the remains of his cake and the broken plate. It’s while he’s kneeling down, biting his lip and trying not to cry because boys –men- don’t cry, that he notices they’re not alone. Spying bare feet with wiggling toes under the table, he peers closer to see Kenma huddled up with the book Tetsurou had discarded. His large amber eyes are wide with apprehension and then he shrinks further into himself.

(When he looks back, Kuroo can’t believe he didn’t realise Kenma was still in the kitchen because these days he’s acutely aware when Kenma’s around – his absence from a room is like the space from a missing tooth that you worry at with your tongue, despite the pain.)

The doorbell rings. Someone’s parent is early, or maybe they’re on time, Tetsurou’s not sure now. So his dad stalks out into the hallway and, for a moment, Tetsurou is terrified about what he’s going to do. But there is no need to worry because his dad heaves open the front door, smiles widely and welcomes one of the mums into the house.

“This?” he says, grinning as he points to his shirt, “Oh we had a little accident with the cake. You know how excited boys get, and well, Surou-chan charged into his mother and she dropped it all over the kitchen floor. Yes, it is a shame, isn’t it? Miwa, darling, why don’t you make a pot of tea for everyone? Or we have wine if you’d like a glass.”

And his dad sounds so convincing every time he repeats the story as more mums turn up that Tetsurou thinks he must have got it wrong. Maybe he _had_ run into his mum. And ... well, she had dropped the plate, so maybe she is clumsy because why would his Daddy lie?

His mum bustles out with a tray of tea and cups, no more smiles as she looks down at her son. “Wash your hands when you’ve finished, Surou-chan,” she mutters as she leaves the kitchen. “Then come and say goodbye to your friends.”

The Kozume kid is staring at him again.

“What are you looking at?” Tetsurou demands. He wants to crawl towards him, and drag him out from under the table, to smear all the chocolate frosting all over his clean clothes and that bloody boring book he’d given him for his birthday present. He wants to...

He bites his lip again. He bites it so hard he can taste blood but he refuses to cry. Instead he grasps the broken plate and then winces when a tiny shard pierces his thumb. “Shit!” The word is a new one, picked up in the playground, and he knows it’s rude and that his mum would scold him for saying it, but it seems oddly polite in a way, especially when he examines his thumb and the rivulet of blood becomes a stream dripping onto the matting.

Still staring at him, Kenma shuffles forward on his bottom. He says nothing but he digs into his pocket and hands Tetsurou a handkerchief. It has turtles on, stupid cartoon turtles that only babies like, but after a sniff, Tetsurou wraps it around his thumb and squeezes tight.

He should say thanks, but it feels so awkward the pair of them sitting together on the kitchen floor with chocolate frosting and chunks of cake smeared on the wall in front of them.

“He didn’t mean it,” he mumbles.

 Kozume doesn’t say a word, but he picks up the largest piece of the shattered plate and heaps the lumps of cake onto it.

“My mum forgot to tell him ...” But he trails off because there’s no way his mum would have forgotten. She plans everything. And ... they’d had a conversation at the breakfast table yesterday talking about the cake and the party and the balloons.

The boy by his side says nothing, but carries on picking up the tiny slivers of china, using the sleeves of his white shirt to protect his fingers.

There’s blood seeping through the handkerchief around Tetsurou’s thumb, and he stares at it, wondering if the red will stain every turtle. It had been such a tiny sliver of china, but it must have gone deep.

“Surou-chan!”

It’s his dad’s voice. “Surou! Where’s Kenma-chan? His dad’s here to take him home.”

Kenma flinches. With eyes even wider, he gets to his feet, places the broken plate heaped up with cake onto the table and inches towards the door.

“Kenma! It’s time to go home,” Kenma’s dad barks.

“Uh...” Kenma stares down at his chocolate encrusted hands. His dad’s still calling, his voice sharp in the air with impatience, and it’s clear to Tetsurou that Kenma’s desperate to go, to leave this crazy house, but there’s something he’s not happy about.

“Sink’s over there,” he says, and nudges the smaller boy over to the far corner.

But Kenma shrugs and instead he slides his hands down his trousers, gives Tetsurou an anxious almost-smile, then stumbles out into the hallway.

Peeping round the door, Tetsurou watches as Kenma approaches the adults standing in the hallway. The mums stare down at him, no doubt seeing a mild-mannered and quiet boy – so unlike their own, still whacking everyone with balloons and stuffing sweets into their mouths.

“Ah, there you are!” Kenma’s dad exclaims, and gripping his son’s arm, he propels him towards the door. “What do you say to Mr and Mrs Kuroo?”

Kenma switches his gaze from his feet and stares guilelessly at Tetsurou’s dad. He says nothing to him, but turns around to where Tetsurou’s mum is clearing a table and gives her an odd little bow.

“Thank you,” he mutters.

She doesn’t reply and it hits Tetsurou, quite suddenly, that she’d forgotten Kenma was in the kitchen. Maybe she hadn’t known. Perhaps Kenma had snuck back with the book when it all got too loud for him.

 

It’s later, when everyone’s left and he’s had a bath, when Tetsurou picks up the book on Japanese myths. It’s quite interesting with a lot of colourful pictures, but he stares at the same sentence again and again, unable to concentrate, however much he wants to block out the day.

There are raised voices coming from the lounge. He’s heard them before, but had never realised what was happening. The only time he’d got up to investigate, his dad had told him to go back to bed, while his mum had assured him it was the television and he should go to sleep.  He’d believed them back then when he was a baby, because people did shout a lot on the television, but now he knows his mum lied. It’s _their_ voices, his dad’s loud, hers shrill, and he can’t shut them out. He reaches for his pillows, stuffs them either side of his head and pounds them into his ears.

 

He doesn’t have another party at home. His mum offers, but he always spins the same line – that he’d rather do something else, that house parties are for babies, or he’s not bothered anymore.  When he’s ten, he takes some friends from school to the cinema. He can’t remember what the film was, at all, but it was something so loud that he’d pulled up the hood of his jacket in an attempt to drown out the noise.

Kenma had sat at the end of the row, taking it all in, but not commenting until the rest of them had left and they’re walking back alone.

“Did you like it?”

Kenma shrugs. “Yeah, I guess.” Then he gives his little half-smile. “Thank you for inviting me, Kuro.”

He grins back. He’s ‘Kuro’ now, not ‘Tetsurou’ or ‘Surou’. Certainly not to Kenma, or in his own mind, however much his mum insists he’ll always be her Surou-chan.

“Wanna sleep over?” he asks.

Kenma considers, gnawing his lip and fidgeting with his sleeve, so Kuro continues, very matter-of-factly, “My Dad’s gone to Nagoya for work. He said he’d bring me back a souvenir.”

At that, Kenma lifts his face slightly and stares straight ahead instead of at the ground. “I’d like to stay,” he decides.

(Kuro’s mum had said he could have a whole gang of them over, but he doesn’t like sharing rooms anymore. The only person Kuro is comfortable with at night is Kenma – because Kenma never asks why Kuro needs two pillows over his ears to sleep.)

 

 

_***_

“So this new girl’s joined Class Four,” Kai murmurs. He’s adding half a teaspoon of sugar to his coffee, slowly spilling it off the spoon, and staring from under his lashes at Kuro. “She’s ... uh ... you know... nice.”

“No, I don’t know,” Kuro replies, and grins. “Hey, Yaks, sounds like Kai’s got a crush on someone.”

“Shut up!” Kai crumples up a paper napkin and throws it at Kuro. “She’s just ... um ... cute, that’s all. And I was thinking about asking her out, but you know what girls are like. I’m not sure she’ll say yes if it’s just me and her. So –”

“I ain’t going on a double date,” Kuro says, the point-blank refusal leaving his mouth without him taking any time to consider.

Kai turns to Yaku. “Yaku?”

“Uh ... I think you should ask her first and see what she says,” Yaku murmurs kindly, but the look he exchanges with Kuro leaves him in no doubt that Yaks doesn’t want to go either.

The door to the cafe opens; Kuro looks up, and raises his hands, cutting of Kai’s ruminations.  “Kenma,” he calls out, muttering to the others. “He’s a bit shy, so don’t pester him, okay?”

Kai stares at Kuro, looking a bit confused as to why Kuro’s invited someone who patently won’t fit in, but Yaku nods solemnly, then turns to face Kenma, smiling a small welcome. To tell the truth, Kuro’s a bit amazed Kenma’s here. He’d asked because he genuinely wanted to celebrate his birthday with him, the same way they’ve done something together for the past nine years, but Kenma’s still shy, still hates meeting new people and will usually make an excuse when Kuro tries to involve him in his social life.

Maybe it’s because Kuro deliberately kept it small, and only invited the two guys he plays volleyball with, or perhaps Kenma’s decided he needs to meet guys from Nekoma before he goes there. Whatever it is, Kuro’s pleased he’s here, and Kenma doesn’t look too uncomfortable. He sits on the end, orders a juice and then studies the menu.

“So...” Kai says after a while. “If I ask her out, where should I take her?”

“Cinema, then she won’t have to look at ya,” Kuro quips. He sits back in his chair tilting it on its two back legs, and smiles lazily.

“She has to agree first,” Yaku says. “Maybe give it a while, see what she’s like?”

Kai sighs and absentmindedly stirs his coffee. “If I were a regular, then I’d have more of a chance,” he mutters, throwing a glance at Kuro. “Come on, Kuroo, the girls go for you, especially now.”

“I said no! And it’s not my fault I got natural talent,” Kuro replies. He grins across at Kenma, who he knows is observing the exchange. “I made the first team.”

“That’s ... uh ... good,” Kenma says, and although he sounds as apathetic as always, Kuro knows the fact that he’s said anything and in front of other people shows he is genuinely pleased.

Yaku smiles at Kenma; his voice is low and gentle as he speaks. “Kuroo says you played volleyball together at Junior High.”

“The famous Junior High that never won anything,” Kai interrupts, still stinging from Kuro’s refusal.

“Hey, we tried!”

“Not that hard, though,” Kenma whispers.

“So, what position are you?” Yaku persists. From him it doesn’t sound like an interrogation. Yaku probes so gently, that it’s not that long before Kenma is answering questions with replies of more than one syllable.

“Our Setter’s rubbish,” Kai chips in. “And the reserve isn’t any better.”

“Kenma’s good,” Kuro says, ignoring the uncomfortable blush spreading across his friend’s cheeks. “Just needs to train harder, yeah?”

“So you will be joining volleyball club next year, then?” Yaku asks.

“You think he’ll give me a choice?” Kenma mutters, with a side-eye at Kuro.

And then he grins.

Kuro’s so surprised that he jerks suddenly, and the perfect equilibrium he’s achieved on two chair legs rather than four is immediately upset. He tips backwards, grabbing at the tablecloth as he flounders and pulls everything crashing to the floor.

There’s one broken saucer and a mess of hot coffee and sugar over Kuro, yet he’s laughing as he rubs his head and wriggles off the chair. “Ouch!”

“You’ve got a soft head, it can’t hurt that much!” Kai says, laughing as he starts to sponge up the spilt coffee.

“No ... I ... ow!” Kuro holds up his hand and scowls a little at the blood oozing from his thumb. “I’ve cut myself on something.”

Whilst Yaku gets on with placating the waitress, assuring her it was an accident, Kenma picks up a batch of napkins and starts to mop at the floor. It’s when he nearly bumps heads with Kuro, that the pair of them stop clearing up and stare at each other. It’s so acutely reminiscent, even down to the bloodied thumb, and so ironic, too, because this is the first birthday Kuro’s felt free to celebrate in years.  He sucks the cut, refusing the soggy napkin Kai hands him, because unlike the last time, it’s not deep.

The four of them wander back to Kuro’s. His mum’s been cooking, so happy her Surou-chan wants people back for tea, and greets them with delight when they all troop into the house. She sings softly to the radio while they’re there, and much as Kuro raises his eyebrows in faux-embarrassment, he’s pleased because she sings when she’s happy.

And after tea, when Yaku and Kai have said their ‘thank-yous’ and told Kenma it was ‘nice to meet him at _last_ ’. Kuro and Kenma lie down together on his bed and stare at the ceiling.

“You can get your Nintendo out if ya want,” Kuro mutters.

“S’cool. I’m happy enough,” Kenma replies, and shuffles a little closer.

Their hands touch, well, it’s just little fingers really, the type of touch that looks accidental, but both know is there.

“The guys liked ya,” Kuro says. “We’re gonna have a great team next year.” He sniffs. “Well, maybe the year after. Yaks is a Libero.”

“Yeah, you said. He’s nice. I liked him.”

“Kai’s okay, too,” Kuro reproved. “Just not as ... um ...” _sympathetic_ , he wants to say, but it doesn’t sound quite right. ‘Cause Kai is okay, and he’s the sort of guy who’ll fight your corner, but he’s not as outwardly good with people as Yaku.

“Kuro.” Kenma turns his face to one side, and stares across at him. “It was fine. Kai was all right.”

“Boring about that girl, though,” Kuro says, relieved when Kenma smiles.

Their fingers interlace.

“You’ve not told them?”

“That Kai’s more my type than a girl?”  Kuro moves his head from side to side on the pillow. “Nope.”

 He feels an increase in pressure on his fingers. “Are you going to?”

“Yeah, probably.”  He turns over on his side and with his free hand, Kuro pushes Kenma’s hair off his face. “Thanks.”

He doesn’t ask what for. Kenma knows that Kuro’s expressing gratitude for a multitude of things – coming to the cafe, making an effort with his new friends, sticking with him, listening, and not pushing him away when things got tricky.

But then, Kenma has seen him at his most defenceless- a small boy clearing up chocolate cake from the floor, refusing to cry. And later when his dad’s violence had gone beyond throwing cakes at walls.

They stare at each other for a little longer, Kuro taking in the large amber eyes that barely blink and can make the acutest of observations from a mere glance. 

His thumb’s still touching Kenma’s cheek, and he runs it across the planes of his face, studying Kenma all the while. There are times when he aches to go further, when it’s all he can do to stop himself from thinking about Kenma’s lips on his, or their hands exploring and bodies pressed up close. Yet tonight is not one of those nights. Tonight he’s content to lie here, fingers entwined, with thoughts their only intimacy.  

“I should sleep,” he says.

“It’s only ten-thirty,” Kenma mutters.

“I got a practise game tomorrow,” Kuro says by way of explanation. “You can play on your Nintendo, I don’t mind.”

Reaching down to the bed his mum had laid out on the floor for Kenma, he picks up the two pillows, and arranges them around his head like a bird snuggling into the tightest of nests.

And the irony strikes him again, even more acutely than it had in the cafe, because this is the first birthday he’s had since his mum finally kicked his dad out, and while he once thought that would make everything right, he knows he won’t sleep without his pillows, and only having Kenma here stops the memories from overwhelming him.

***

 

“This is fucking brilliant. Get me another,” Kuro slurs and pushes his shot glass across the bar.  A hand catches it, but it’s not the barman, the hand belongs to someone on the same side of bar as Kuro.

“Think you’ve had enough.”

Kuro stares up at the figure. He blinks a little, recognising his flatmate. “Who are you to tell me what to do, Sawamura? It’s my birthday. Why are you here, anyway?”

“Someone needs to keep an eye on you. Those friends of yours ...” Daichi glances over to the bar, where Kuro’s fellow college classmates are downing another set of shots. “They don’t seem capable.”

“It’s called fun, Sawa-chan,” Kuro mutters. “Somethin’ I’m entitled to on my birthday.”

“Yeah, which is why Yaku arranged for us to go out, but you turned that down, and so Suga’s been buying food for a meal.” He touches Kuroo on the shoulder. “C’mon, they’ve put in an effort, and ... well ... Suga isn’t the best cook in the world, but he’s enthusiastic.”

“Hey, are you ordering anything?” The barman has wandered across to them, his eyes flickering over Daichi. “I’ll need to see id.”

“I’m eighteen,” Daichi replies calmly.

“Then you need to leave.”

“I’ve come to collect my friend, and then we’re going,” Daichi replies, not at all intimidated.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Kuro says, and squints at the barman. “C’n I have a ... a ... ”  His eyes peruse the shelves of bottles behind the bar. “That red one. Give me a shot of that.”

“Sure.” But as the barman’s hand reaches for the bottle, Daichi grabs Kuro’s shoulder.

“Come on. Let’s leave now. We’ll find a coffee bar, then go back to the apartment.”

“What are you, my mum? Go back to your fucking perfect angel of a boyfriend and leave me to enjoy myself. Unless you’re here for another reason. Is Mr Perfect pissing you off, Sawamura? Are you after another flavour? Is vanilla getting too bland?”  The insults trip off his tongue easily, and he smirks up at Daichi, daring the asshole to react.

And he does react, but not in the way Kuro expects. He pulls up a barstool, sits down and waves away the barman.

“I’ll wait here with you until you sober up, or we could leave now. It’s up to you.”

“Why don’t you just piss off?”

“Because Suga and Morisuke have made an effort, and as much as I couldn’t give a fuck what state you drink yourself into tonight, Kuroo, or any fricking night, I am getting sick of you chucking your guts up in the bathroom, especially as you can’t aim when you’re pissed.”

“You really are a sanctimonious asshole, Sawamura, you know that.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Daichi rolls his eyes, and makes his hand look like a mouth jabbering into Kuro’s face.  Then he sighs. “Look, I know you hate this kind of deep meaningful crap, and I’m not good at it either, but I’m worried about you, and the others are, too.”

“I’m fine,” Kuro mumbles. “Go home.” He lifts his arm to the barman, about to order his shot of red whatever it is but then he catches sight of himself in the mirrors behind all the bottles, and the vision of the man staring back, an angry drunk of a man, that Kuro’s tried so hard to banish from his thoughts, stops him in his tracks.

“Kuroo?” Daichi’s voice appears distant, but Kuro knows he’s still there because he can feel his hand on his arm.

“I need to go home,” he says at last.  “Help me, will you?”

They find a cafe, and Daichi orders a pot of strong black coffee, and a large glass of orange juice for him.  He pulls out his phone, explaining to Kuro that he needs to text the others, and tell them they’re on their way, but might be a while.  Kuro chuckles and sighs a little at this. It’s been a while since someone’s bothered about him, he thinks, but no, that’s not quite right. There’s always been someone for him. His mum, for one, although now she has a new boyfriend, she’s not always got time. And Kenma, he’s had Kenma since he was seven, when clearing up chocolate cake forged a stronger bond than having the remotest thing in common.

But it’s past tense. He doesn’t have Kenma now, and won’t again.

“I fucked up!” he blurts out.

“It happens,” Daichi says as he takes quick small sips of his steaming coffee. He nudges the orange juice towards Kuro. “Do you want to talk?”

“Not really, but ...” He needs Yaks here, not Daichi who he’s only got to know properly since they started sharing in April. Yaku understands, but ... maybe that’s the problem, maybe he needs someone who won’t understand, who’ll shout at him, or snap him back to life.

“Last month when I went home.” He falters. “Okay, I didn’t go home, but went to Kenma’s okay.”

“It was his birthday, wasn’t it? Didn’t you and Morisuke make him an apple pie?”

“Yeah.” He gulps at the orange juice and it briefly revives him. “Kenma turned eighteen.”

“Mmm ... oh ...” It’s odd how one sound, one small vowel can express so much. Daichi’s mouth is a perfect ‘o’, his face is frozen, eyebrows raised in both comprehension and question.

“I’ve liked him for years,” Kuro murmurs. “Like, we were best friends and there wasn’t a moment when I suddenly changed towards him, but it was like, he was always there and I just knew.”

“And you told him?” Daichi rests his hand on Kuro’s. “I’m sorry.”

“That was the trouble,” Kuro mutters. He doesn’t remove his hand, but stares across the table into Daichi’s eyes. “I didn’t say anything, but I kind of ... I kind of made a move, and ...” He rubs his hand over his face, remembering with startling clarity the way Kenma had frozen and curled himself into a ball. The morning after had been awkward, and it had never been awkward between them before. “It’s a fucking mess.”

Daichi’s phone starts to ring before he’s phrased a no doubt well-intentioned reply. Kuro wonders what he’d have said. Probably something about friendship not being broken that easily, but Kuro’s not heard from Kenma in a month, and there wasn’t a card or a text this morning.

“Yep, yep, we’re on our way. We stopped off to get coffee, Suga. No, he’s fine. Or he will be.” There’s a resigned look on his face as he asks for the coffees to be poured into takeaway cups, and then after insisting Kuro at least finishes the orange juice, he links his arm around his waist and they stumble for the door.

“I can walk, you know,” Kuro says, and it’s true. The fresh air may have hit him, but it hasn’t floored him, instead he’s revived because maybe talking to someone, however little he’s said, has helped clear the clouds in his mind.

“I remember the first time I kissed Suga,” Daichi says. “I was shit scared. Had no idea how he felt about me at all. I just knew I had to do something because ...” He laughs and lifts his face to the sky. “Our team had fallen apart, Suga thought it was his fault and I couldn’t bear to lose him, too.”

“Yeah, but it ended happily for you, Daichi-san,” Kuro mutters, trying not to sound bitter, but really the experiences don’t compare.

“Mmm, but there was always this thought – still is if I’m being honest – that by having a relationship, if  it ends, then the friendship’s gone too. And ... sorry, not sure this is helping, but I know how you feel.”

“Kenma’s not been in touch.” The words leave his lips with the finality of a plate smashing on the floor.

“Have you contacted him?”

“Uh ...” He swallowed. “I have a stack of drunk texts on my phone that I’m real pleased I wasn’t pissed enough to send.”

“Well, as you’re the one who _thinks_ he’s in the wrong, then aren’t you the one that needs to apologise?”

“I _am_ in the wrong!”

Daichi slows down and guides Kuroo around the next corner and into the street where their apartment is. “Then you need to contact him first, Kuroo. It’s not rocket science.”

“What and say, ‘Hey I’m sorry I got a boner from cuddling you and then tried to jerk you off.’? Or how about, ‘I must apologise for the fact that all I want is for you to suck me off and I’ve been thinking about that since I was fifteen.’ Would that go down well?”

“Maybe you call him and say, ‘Kenma, can we talk? I’m sorry’,”  Daichi snaps, his patience obviously at that teetering point where he wants to yell even though he knows it’s not the best strategy.

 

“Great you’re back!” Yaku answers the door before Daichi’s even got his key out. He studies Kuro. “How much did he have?”

“Hey, I am here, ya know,” Kuro mutters. “And I’m okay. I’d only had three in the bar, and this guy’s poured so much orange juice and black coffee into me, that I’m over flowing.” He sniffs the air. “Is that mackerel?”

“Uh... it’s supposed to be,” Yaku murmurs, with a side glance at the kitchen in case Suga hears.  “Don’t worry. If it’s inedible, I’ll go and get take-out.” He grips his arm. “Are you okay?”

“Mmm, I’m fine.”

“Then ... uh ... go and sit down, and I’ll make you a drink or something.”

“What time are we eating?”

“Uh ... we’re just ...” Yaku’s prevaricating, but whatever it is he wants to say is interrupted when the doorbell rings. The fact that both Daichi and Yaku exchange looks, and Suga appears suddenly in the doorway of their tiny kitchen, makes Kuro immediately suspicious.

“What’s going on?” he asks, as Yaku buzzes the person in without even asking who it is.

“You,” Daichi says, pushing Kuro towards the bathroom, “have a visitor. So freshen up, take a piss or whatever you need, clean your teeth and join us all in the kitchen.”

“A visitor?  Who?” But he knows.

There’s a soft knock at their door, but before Yaku can answer, Kuro strides over and yanks it open.

And of course a slight figure is standing there. He’s shuffling his feet, and biting his lip. His eyes are wide, wider than Kuro remembers even though he saw him a month ago, and they’re staring up at Kuro, amber eyes intense and wary.

“Hi,” he mutters, then he clears his throat. “Happy Birthday, Kuro.”

“Uh ... we’ll leave you to it, then,” Daichi says, and ushers both Suga and Yaku back into the kitchen, where he firmly closes the door.

“Why are you here?” Kuro whispers, then flushes because that sounds rude and as if he doesn’t want Kenma anywhere near him. “Sorry.”

Kenma shrugs a little. “It’s your birthday,” he replies as if that explains it all, which between the pair of them is all the excuse they need.

It’s all too much, all too bloody much, not just because it wasn’t three drinks he’d had but five, but because he hates the way his heart tugs inside him when he sees Kenma.

Yet he loves it, too, because this is the boy he’s grown up with, and the one he can’t bear to lose, and he thought he’d broken them for good.

There’s a burning at the back of his eyes, he reaches out and plucks at Kenma’s sleeve, dragging him through the door and into his arms.

Boys don’t cry, his dad always told him. And men don’t either, but Kuro can’t stop the tears from spilling from his eyes. It’s like a dam has broken, a dam so fragile he wonders how it hadn’t snapped before. 

“I’m so sorry,” he sobs. “I fucked up.”

In reply, Kenma lifts his head up. His hands by his side are trembling but he raises them and runs his fingers through Kuro’s hair, giving up when his fingers come to a stop on the tangles.  He swallows. “You didn’t fuck up,” he says, his voice hoarse as he rests his head against Kuro’s chest.

The door to the kitchen creaks open, and Yaku coughs. “Um, the food’s done ...” He steps closer and lowers his voice, “well, it’s as done as it’s ever going to be. Suga’s idea of cooking is to add twice as many chillies than the recipe suggests,” he explains to Kenma.

“Yeah, in a minute, Yaks,” Kuro replies, cutting him off. He waits for Yaku to retreat, sits on the floor, and pulls Kenma down with him. Then draping his hands over his shoulders he stares into his eyes.

“I don’t want to lose you, Kenma. I kinda thought that you turning eighteen meant ... well ... you know what I thought. But if you’re not ready ...   or rather, if you’re _never_ ready because it’s not me you want - then it doesn’t matter.”

Kenma starts to laugh, then it chokes to a rasp. “It’s like ... a game.”

“I’m guessing you don’t mean volleyball,” Kuro mutters.

“Not volleyball,” Kenma replies quietly.  “It’s ... there are all these levels and sometimes, even though you know the only way you can reach the end, that you can beat the game, is by taking the next level, sometimes you’re scared to commit in case it all goes wrong. Because the next level might be too hard, and it might kill you.” He closes his eyes and balls his fists tight, the words coming out in a jumble because Kenma never speaks this much, not even to Kuro. “And then you’re back to the beginning again, but it’s worse ‘cause you know what you’ve lost and how hard you’re going to have to work to get it back.”

“Hey,” Kuro protests, and wipes away the tears on both his and Kenma’s faces. “I’m not a Pokémon character.”

“You have the hair for it,” Kenma says with almost a laugh in his voice, and now he opens his eyes, unclenches his fists and after a breathless pause, he presses his lips onto Kuro’s.

It’s a tentative kiss, fleeting and unsure on both sides, but for Kuro it’s the start of something new. He breaks away first, and smiles down at him. “You do know you’re  forgetting something, Kenma-chan.”

“What’s that?”

Tilting his head forwards, he touches his brow to Kenma’s. “You’re not taking on the next level by yourself, are you? Whatever happens, if we ‘die’, we can always start at the beginning – together.”


End file.
